


bury me face down (in your heart)

by actionpackedlips



Series: your gun to my head (my heart in your hands) [2]
Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Daddy Dom Deadpool, Daddy Kink, Dark Wade Wilson, Dom Wade Wilson, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Edging, Hate Sex, I think that’s it folks, Identity Reveal, M/M, Masochism, Post-Break Up, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Slight gun play, Sort Of, Sub Peter Parker, Unintentional/Undiscussed Scening, Wall Sex, basically Wade may be dark but he still has a heart, breathe play, especially for Peter, it’s there, okay?, they both still have feelings shhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-19
Updated: 2020-05-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24262798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actionpackedlips/pseuds/actionpackedlips
Summary: Deadpool hasn't been back in New York since Peter told him, screamed at him, to stay away all those years ago. He hadn't just barred Deadpool from New York, but also from his heart. So when he sees a familiar black and red clad figure on the news, he knows Deadpool's back, and he's fully prepared to go confront him.He doesn't want any of that anymore, anyway. Or so he's been telling himself daily since the very last time he laid eyes on Deadpool.Peter's not prepared for what seeing the other man does to his resolve, and he finds what they ended all those years ago picking right back up from where they left off.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson, Spider-Man/Deadpool
Series: your gun to my head (my heart in your hands) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1753558
Comments: 61
Kudos: 464
Collections: I'll Be In My Bunk, Only the Most Beautiful





	bury me face down (in your heart)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from, honestly. (Yes I do. Looking at you, Isn't It Bromantic? server 😂) This story is a lot darker than my others, both physically and emotionally. So I suggest you really look over the tags before reading! If you think anything has been mistagged or needs tagging, please let me know! 
> 
> I want to just say the this has a whole long, emotionally painful, convoluted back story. But I didn't write the beginning or the end, I wrote a scene from it's middle. I hope that you guys can still enjoy it regardless of that! Just know that both of these boys have trust issues, are terrible at expressing feelings, and completely unwilling to change for one another! (So they think...)
> 
> Thanks to [cheekysstyles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheekysstyles/pseuds/cheekysstyles) for the amazing beta job! ♥️

Deadpool didn’t have any other super powers than his healing ability, but that didn’t stop him from freezing just as Peter landed near-silent behind him. His back tensed into stillness, powerful muscles bunching as he froze. He was hunched over the open trunk of a yellow taxi that had been backed into the abandoned alley.

Peter hadn’t needed anyone to tell him Deadpool was in town; the merc did a good enough job of being his own calling card.

“That you, Spidey?” The question rumbled deep from his chest, and Peter could practically hear the sneer; that any one else was to expect pain and violence. A shiver made its way down Peter’s spine. It’d been a long time since he’d heard that rough voice.

“You didn’t think I’d let you get away with this, Deadpool,” he chided softly, almost regretfully. 

They had history, sure, but that didn’t mean he’d turn a cheek. Peter Parker, maybe, but never Spider-Man.

“Of course not,” Deadpool muttered, almost to himself, before finally moving, turning slowly to look at Peter head on, the gun he’d been rummaging for held loosely in his hand.

“I was hoping you’d come,” he admitted, mask emotionless; a fact that worried Peter, because if there was one thing he knew of Deadpool it was that he had no problem being expressive, even with his mask on. _Especially_ with his mask on.

Inside his own mask, Peter’s eyebrows raised. He hadn’t expected that. They hadn’t actually parted on good terms, not by any means.

“O-oh?” Peter stuttered out, and then cursed himself and the nervous part of him that always got brought out near Deadpool. He wasn’t scared of the man, really, but more-so of the sway Deadpool had over him.

He’d never been good at being unaffected by the other man. He was mad that it still rang true after all this time.

Deadpool sauntered forward, and Peter’s eyes couldn’t help but flick down to the exaggerated movement of his hips. The hips that Peter knew tapered down into an impressive—

“Hey, Webs, my eyes are up here,” Deadpool purred. Peter’s face rivaled flames behind his mask.

“I wasn’t looking—” Peter sputtered, indignant, “—and besides, you can’t tell with my mask on anyway.”

Deadpool chuckled darkly as he continued his path towards Peter.

“Oh, I can tell,” he argued, a tad bit smugly, too, Peter noted. Which meant he thought he was right. But Deadpool always thought he was right. He was bound to be some of the time, statistically.

“Yeah? How?” Ever defiant. Deadpool had always told him how much he loved that about him. He never liked following the rules himself; nothing made him hotter than watching someone else be combative and disobedient.

Deadpool had been punished enough in his life; now he often found pleasure in being the one to punish others.

That hadn’t excluded Peter.

It had helped contribute to their crash and burn. He was sure Deadpool probably liked that just as much; watching something he’d help build between them fall apart around him.

Deadpool was close enough now to reach out and touch. Which Peter absolutely did not do, even if his fingers twitched with the want of it; to slide across thick shoulders and cup around cutting hip bones.

Peter, distracted by his own inner fight with himself, hadn’t noticed Deadpool reach out. Before he knew it, he was pressed back roughly along the scratchy brick wall. 

Peter both loved and hated that he had to tilt his head up if he wanted to meet the others gaze.

The hand not pinning him to the wall went down to cup Peter almost painfully.

“Besides the obvious?” Deadpool asked, almost casually, as if this was just a normal conversation between two bros.

Peter regretted being hasty today when he’d changed into his costume. But he’d seen the news at home, intending to relax a little before patrolling, and knew immediately who was behind it. He’d forgotten the cup he normally wore in his haste.

He wondered if a part of him deep down knew, or hoped, that this would be the outcome.

 _No._ He didn’t want that anymore.

Deadpool squeezed his hand harder and Peter whimpered. He’d been half hard since seeing the powerful line of Deadpool’s back and he was only getting increasingly harder now.

It was a purely Pavlovian response, Peter told himself. His body was just used to the intimidating press of Deadpool’s bulk against his own. He couldn’t help responding to it.

Deadpool rested his masked forehead against Peter’s, ignoring the tremors that went through the smaller man beneath him.

Peter could hear Deadpool’s ragged breathing through the mask, his usual tell of how turned on he was, as he nuzzled his head along Peter’s temple, sliding farther down so he could line his lips up to where Peter’s ear would be under the mask.

“Your lenses focus in on what you’re staring at,” he whispered it like a secret; the wicked kind that wreaked havoc, started fights, ended marriages. The kind that made Peter feel small and humiliated.

Peter had honestly forgotten his suit did that.

“Oooh,” Deadpool cooed soothingly, or what he probably meant to be soothingly, into Peter’s cheek, “Don’t be embarrassed.”

His hand let up it’s pressure to instead pet softly at the growing hardness.

“I’m just glad you still miss me.”

Peter bucked Deadpool off him at that.

“I don’t miss you, Deadpool.” His voice sounded weak even to his own ears, even if he meant every word.

Deadpool tsked and shrugged.

“Well, _someone_ missed me.”

His mask furrowed and Peter just _knew_ where his gaze was.

He knew covering himself up would just encourage the other man more so instead he stood up tall, the back of his suit scrapping softly along the brick as he said, “I saw what you’ve been up to. It’s all over the news, Deadpool. You shouldn’t be doing that _anywhere_ -”

And wasn’t that a sentence worth a thousand fights.

Literally.

“-but it _definitely_ can’t happen in my city.”

Deadpool pretended to duck his head, chastised. Then he scoffed, shaking his hanging head.

He glanced up with a quirked eyebrow.

“You know what,” Deadpool threw his hands up in defeat, grip on the gun he still held loosening. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Peter’s eyebrows nearly hit his hairline in surprise.

“Really?” The skepticism in his voice rang clear. Deadpool nodded his head.

“Quietly, even.”

Peter knew Deadpool well enough to wait for the catch.

“But you have to do something for me first.”

There it was.

“I’m not helping you with whatever scheme you’ve concocted.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back into the wall, hoping he sounded more steadfast than he felt. He’d been sucked into Deadpool’s whirlwind of madness before. You only escaped with bruises and existential crises, a specialty of Deadpool’s. 

“No, no,” Deadpool reassured him. He drew closer and the anxious feeling Peter had been trying to tamper down flared back up. He could take Deadpool physically. It was the other, far more tender, part that Peter worried for.

His heart had barely survived the last time.

Deadpool was amazing with a weapon. He could shoot, stab, break, maim, kill.

You should see him with a _heart_.

Deadpool’s hand came to rest possessively on Peter’s hip while the other planted itself on the brick beside his head. The hand on him felt as hot as a brand, and bracketed in Deadpool’s arms, Peter felt simultaneously free and trapped.

“Let me see you.”

Peter’s body seized at the demand. Not an ask, no, an _order_. 

He hadn't—

Not in all the time they’d—

He’d never asked for—

The thoughts raced through his head unfinished and his mouth dropped open in shock.

Deadpool noticed, of course, and took the opportunity to press a thumb hard against his slack bottom lip, visible even through the mask. He continued the pressure inward so the fabric stretched to its limit.

If the mask was off that thumb would be halfway in his mouth and Peter could close down and suck—

“ _No._ ”

Deadpool laughed as if this was all a joke, “Then off I go.”

He turned back towards the taxi to resume his plans.

Peter reached out to grasp Deadpool’s wrist tightly. To stop him.

He kept his head down, ashamed, gaze on the cracked asphalt, as he agreed quietly.

“Okay.”

Deadpool turned around and Peter slipped his hand away. He brought them both up to grip at the fabric at the base of his neck, tugging it up and out of his bodysuit.

He breathed out through his nose, steeling himself. He could do this. 

He’d given everything else to the man, hadn’t he? There wasn’t much he hadn’t wrung out of him before and Peter wondered if this last part he’d kept to himself had been inevitably Deadpool’s from the start.

The fabric inched up his chin.

“Let me do it,” Deadpool told him suddenly, hands taking over the fabric that had been held in Peter’s own hands.

He didn’t have time to argue before Deadpool was lifting the mask up and off him.

Peter blinked like he always did when he took off his mask. It took a second to adjust to his normal vision rather than looking through the lenses in his suit. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” and the word, fallen roughly from Deadpool’s mouth, felt like a punch. 

Peter looked up just as a leather clad hand cupped his cheek almost tenderly.

The same thumb from earlier came to rub at the spot that had been given previous attention. His bottom lip, now exposed, glistened slightly from where Peter had licked it just before he’d prepared to take the mask off. His lips often got dry and chapped in the suit, okay, that was all. The leather slid smoothly across his plush lip. 

“Oh, _baby boy_ ,” Deadpool groaned that old nickname and Peter lost his breath just from hearing it. Then before Peter could even sense it he was pressed painfully up against the brick wall again and Deadpool’s lips were devouring his own.

He hadn’t even seen him lift his own mask. His senses were really failing him tonight.

They’d always acted a little haywire around Deadpool, though.

Peter kissed back in the way that couldn’t be helped, the familiarity of it taking over, the memories of _before_ superimposed over the _now._

But he came back to himself and bit down hard along Deadpool’s bottom lip.

“Ow, _you_ _little fucker_ ,” he cursed at Peter. He tilted his head back and the swipe of his tongue took care of the blood that had welled up over the already-healed bite. 

“I see how it is,” he sneered, and he spun Peter face first into a spread eagle position against the wall. Peter’s cheek stung from the impact and strong, firm hands wrapped tightly around his wrists just above the web shooters. 

Peter was asking himself why he was still allowing this to happen. He tried to pretend like he didn’t know, but as Deadpool ground himself up against Peter’s backside the tiniest little part of himself, the masochist in him, knew exactly why.

“You still pretending you don’t want it?” Deadpool mocked. His breath puffed hot along the shell of Peter’s ear as he continued, “That every time we were together was a mistake?”

Peter's voice was lost to him.

“Keep your hands there,” Deadpool ordered threateningly before letting Peter’s right wrist go to trail a hand down across his pecs, over the Spider-Man logo, down a tapered waist, to rest right over the full hardness he knew he’d find there.

That Peter knew he’d find there, too.

No part of his body was on board with his mind's decision of not wanting this.

“You _seem_ pretty interested,” Deadpool teased and the hand still pinning his left to the wall tightened. Pain tinged across his wrist in protest. 

He tucked his nose along Peter’s neckline and inhaled deeply like he was a damn flower bouquet. 

“You smell good, baby,” and Peter could almost hear the part Deadpool didn’t say. _Good enough to eat._

Peter shivered and felt Deadpool’s smile grow menacingly along his skin at his response.

Biting kisses planted themselves one by one in a line along Peter’s neck, down to the slope of where it joined his shoulder; teeth scraped along the sensitive skin there, before biting down more sharply.

Peter couldn’t hold in his moan. It echoed loudly off the walls of the alley. His hands grappled to stay put as his legs buckled.

The arm of the hand that had been slowly caressing him tightening quickly around his middle to keep him standing up right.

“Has anyone touched you like this since me?” Deadpool pried as he lavished more kisses onto the bruised, bitten skin.

Peter stayed stubbornly silent.

Deadpool blew cooly over the spit-slick skin and he shivered again at the sensation.

His willful silence persisted and he knew Deadpool seethed silently behind him. He could feel the anger nearly vibrating out of him along his back where they were pressed together. He wasn’t sure why he was riling the mercenary up. He knew that while his defiance angered the man, he also got a sick pleasure out of punishing Peter for it.

A gloved hand released his other wrist and roamed, caressing over Peter’s throat, stroking down over his pecs—

Peter hissed as Deadpool found a nipple and twisted cruelly. He bucked back against Deadpool and the force of it shoved the man back. 

Before he knew it a hard object pressed threateningly against his lower back. It wasn’t Deadpool; his hard dick went back to pressing firmly against his ass.

No, Peter knew what it was. He just cursed his senses for still trusting Deadpool enough to let him pull a gun out on him.

“Is that a gun in your pocket, Deadpool,” his deep voice attempted to mock in a falsetto that was supposed to be Peter, “or are you just happy to see me?”

He laughed quietly at his own twisted joke, muttering a “oh, I’m happy alright,” to himself, and Peter knew he could have crawled up and away, kicked back, literally _anything_ in that moment. Instead he stayed frozen obediently along the wall as the gun pressed a dimple into his lower back.

“I’ve had a loooong time to think about this, Spidey.” He licked up Peter's neck, tasting him, and breathed into his ear, “Maybe too long.”

Peter’s hands were starting to feel heavy as he kept them pressed against the wall, and he was hyper aware of everywhere Deadpool was pressed against him. Peter was starting to feel that familiar feeling, that floaty feeling that only seemed to happen around Deadpool, and he struggled to fight against it.

“We all know what happens when I plan things.”

Peter didn’t want any more of himself to break, even if at the same time his body begged Deadpool to ruin him.

“I want you to tell me to continue,” he growled suddenly into Peter’s shoulder, angry and seemingly unaware, or perhaps just _uncaring_ , of the boy breaking apart beneath him. “I want you to never forget you asked for this. Begged me for it. That after everything, _you_ _still want me_.”

Peter inhaled a gasp at the last sentence, practically snarled into his ear, and turned, grinding his forehead unintentionally into the brick in front of him, as he flinched away, his hearing picking up the deep rumble and amplifying it. The pure implications of what Deadpool said licked down his spine like fire. He wished it was Deadpool’s tongue instead. 

Everything in him told him to say no.

Deadpool was dangerous. 

But he’d _always_ been dangerous. That hadn’t stopped Peter the last time.

_Times._

“Please,” he finally pleaded in a defeated whisper, breathing it to the bricks in front of him instead of the man behind him so he could pretend Deadpool hadn’t forced this tiny, desperate part out of him.

There was no need for Peter to say it twice. Deadpool didn’t need affirmations, just declaration, and that fleeting word was enough to have him spinning Peter around to face him again, ripping Peter’s shirt off him in the process.

His angry cry was swallowed by another kiss. Not the kind you saw in the movies, no, this was dirty and dark, angry and cruel, with the faintest taste of copper. The skin of his back scraped red painfully against the exposed brick and the gun still kept its reminder to behave above the jut of his hip bone.

Peter moaned against scarred lips, hating every pleasurable second of it, and Deadpool laughed against them. 

“Poor Spidey, you haven’t been taken care of have you?”

Peter gulped and averted his eyes to avoid the telling answer hidden deep within them. 

There had been times before when Deadpool might have tilted his chin back up and kissed him tenderly. The rare fleeting moments that Peter had equally thirsted for, but this wasn’t one of those times.

Those times were over.

This time he laughed cruelly and returned the bite Peter had given him earlier. Peter’s lower lip throbbed and he couldn’t help his eyes from watering at the bright spark of pain.

It felt so good.

_Too good._

“Deadpool, we can’t d—”

“Hush now, little spider, Daddy’s got work to do.” Deadpool started to kneel, dragging the gun down a spandex clad thigh, and Peter’s hands followed him where they’d come down to rest along his shoulders as they’d kissed. 

Deadpool paused at the drape of hands along his shoulders and the whites of his mask’s eyes narrowed; his exposed lips curled into a mean smile as he shook his head, “Ah ah.” He waved the gun towards the wall, “Hands back up.”

Peter titled his chin up as his hands lifted without hesitation and he saw the dark clouds of the night sky illuminated by the moon above them. He focused on that instead of the humiliation coursing through him.

He was just as good at being obedient as he was at being defiant. 

Deadpool smirked, and Peter heard what he didn’t say now, but had said all those other times:

_You’re like my little puppet. I pull the strings and you do whatever I want._

Peter had thought he’d severed them long ago.

He supposed he’d just repressed them instead. 

Deadpool resumed his path downward, lips skimming skin on his descent, and he pulled Peter’s suit pants down just enough to expose him to the open air.

He leaned in, and in similar fashion to earlier, inhaled deeply.

“Fuck, I missed—” Peter’s heart skipped a beat, “—that.”

 _Of course_ , Peter thought and the bright burn of hurt curled around his heart, but he had no right to be hurt. He didn’t want Deadpool to miss him. He’d explicitly told the other man to forget about him entirely.

He hadn’t done so well on taking his own advice, however.

His skin nearly burned with want and the arousal the trail of scarred lips brought nearly dragged a sob out of his own trembling lips. He’d tried so hard to act like he didn’t need it. That Deadpool’s brand of sex, rough and filthy and controlling, didn’t match the needs of his own.

A litany of desperate “please”’s fell near silent from his lips and his fists clenched in their want to move, command be damned, down to frame Deadpool’s shoulders. He struggled with the desire to touch and feel and prove this was real because he had _so many_ dreams that had starred the other man like this since he left.

“Shhh,” Deadpool soothed softly. The gun dragged down and away as Deadpool licked up Peter in one swift motion. Peter’s legs spasmed but held. Deadpool guided one of his large hands to a hip and pressed hard enough for a flash of pain to spark along the bone there as he pinned him to the wall.

He was making it known by the controlling press of his hand that Peter was not in charge. Even if he could be, he never would be, and this was not going to be one of those times he let Peter guide the pace. 

No, he didn’t get that right now.

Peter threw his head back against the wall, panting, as Deadpool sucked the tip into his mouth and moved so slowly down Peter could hardly feel him move. The heat of his mouth felt almost as tortuous as the glacier-like pace. 

Once Deadpool had his mind set on something he put all his focus into it. He often made messes while working, sure, but he was always thorough. That followed into the bedroom, or alley, rather, too. He kept up the slow pace, making sure Peter stayed hard and wanting, but never going any faster. His tongue flicked out to lave under the head on an upstroke, and his cheeks hollowed out as he descended slowly, letting the suction increase near painfully as he swallowed Peter down.

Peter couldn’t help the cry that left him as Deadpool twirled his tongue once more as he came back up.

“You know how to ask if you want more, baby,” Deadpool reminded him, voice anything but sweet despite the pet name, and suddenly the rules of years ago renewed fresh in his mind.

Peter flushed hot with embarrassment, forgetting he was without a shirt, so Deadpool watched in satisfaction as it spread across his chest.

He chuckled and Peters dick twitched as the breath of it blew across sensitive, damp skin. Deadpool’s hand came to curl loosely around the base of his cock and gave it one quick jerk, a reminder that he was waiting for Peter to ask. 

“P-please,” the word fell unevenly from Peter’s lips but he hesitated on the second, shame curling low in his gut, skin still flushed bright red with humiliation. 

“Please, _what?”_ Deadpool prompted before leaning in to scrap his teeth across the head of Peter’s dick warningly, a threat to answer correctly this time, and Peter sucked in a quick breath at the sharp pain. 

“Please,” Peter whispered, and he ducked his head into his forearm, “ _Daddy.”_

“That’s my good boy,” and with that Deadpool sucked him down again, but far faster this time. He brought his other hand, sans gun, to frame Peter’s other hip and guided him, allowing him to thrust into his mouth freely.

A reward for good behavior.

Peter really did sob that time, memories resurfacing with that thought, and his hips jerked uncoordinatedly into Deadpool’s mouth. 

God, he was so close. 

He went to thrust deeply once more, exhaling softly out of his nose, feeling the edge of his arousal crash into him—

Then Deadpool was pulling back, up and away, and Peter felt his arousal dial down, back from that looming edge, and he moaned piteously in frustration. He recognized the build up, and knew how good that release would have felt, like a tidal wave engulfing you, perilous in its current pulling you under, swift and sudden.

He hadn’t had an orgasm that left him loose-limbed and sated in _so long_ , the responsibilities on his shoulders forgotten momentarily in the haze of post-orgasmic bliss.

Deadpool rose up, too far away, and Peter pulled taut, arms staying obediently pinned to the wall as he strained to thrust forward. He wanted to feel the long, thick hardness there, and the painful confines of Deadpool’s leather suit made it obvious how much he wanted Peter. 

Desired him.

How easy Peter found himself falling into old habits as the gap between them taunted him.

“Please, Daddy,” Peter begged, panting as his chest heaved, head still resting along the inside of his arm, only peeking out the slightest bit. He was afraid to meet Deadpool’s eyes. To see the mockery there. The cruelty.

There used to be affection there, too, once.

“Please let me finish. I-I haven’t—”

Deadpool silenced him with a kiss, swooping down to press their lips together unevenly. His hand came up to grasp a little too tightly at his chin as he turned Peter’s head so that he could gain better access.

When he came back up, Peter was nearly out of breath, and forgot what he’d been begging for. Deadpool always knew what he wanted, even if he didn’t, and would give it to him, in his own time, of course. He just wanted Deadpool to get closer, anything, so he could rub up against him.

“You know Daddy always gives you what you need.”

Peter knew he shouldn’t nod, because it wasn’t true, but he found his head moving regardless. Deadpool had been like fire, beautiful but deadly, murderously mesmerizing. He had given Peter things he didn’t even know he needed, but he’d taken even more than Peter realized in return.

Things he still hadn’t entirely gotten back.

But the voice in the back of his head reminding him of that was getting quieter and quieter with each kiss.

“That’s right,” Deadpool purred at his compliance and slowly extended his hands up, brushing them along the soft skin of Peter’s inner arms to come grip his wrists again. The web shooters had stayed on despite his shirt being ripped off and Deadpool played with one. The sound of it going off startled Peter as it shot out at an angle and stuck along the wall of the building.

Deadpool cackled with glee.

“I wonder what my little spider would do if he was caught in his own web,” he pondered aloud. Peter didn’t like the gleam in his eyes. Before Peter could predict, one web shooter was clicking open and off, falling into Deadpool's expectant, waiting hand.

“Oopsie,” he exclaimed a little too innocently. 

Peter didn’t like where this was going. He was walking a tightrope between the two emotions within him, one recognizing the danger this could lead to, had _already_ led to, and the other knowing Deadpool would take care of him, give him what he needed. 

It had been so long since he let go and his body surged with the need of it. 

Deadpool flipped Peter over again and the decision was made. 

Peter’s other cheek hit the brick a little too hard this time, bright pain blooming across the side of his face, and like a flip had been suddenly switched, Peter relinquished full control. His mind started to go still and silent, only focused on Deadpool’s voice and touch. The little amounts of protest he’d been holding onto left him. So what if he allowed Deadpool to hover him over a ledge; he’d always made sure to reel him back before. Even if he wasn’t always in the same condition as when he’d been found, he never let Peter fall. Never let him completely shatter.

Peter hoped Deadpool wouldn’t let him now. He had no one to help him pick up the pieces.

His hands were brought down and back, and Peter barely registered the _thwip!_ of his own web shooter going off before he felt the fibers adhere securely to his crossed hands at his lower back. He tugged, blinking in confusion before what had just happened registered. It brought him out of his fog just a little, just enough to attempt to protest.

“Dea—”

Deadpool hissed out a sharp breath that quieted Peter instantly.

“ _Daddy_ just wants to make sure you don’t get away this time,” Deadpool explained and he let the webshooter fall forgotten to the ground. It rolled to rest against the equally forgotten gun.

Deadpool’s hands pushed at the pants of Peter’s suit, letting the fabric bunch around his knees like he didn’t have the patience to fully take them off. Peter felt exposed and dirty, pressed along the brick of a gross abandoned alleyway, nearly naked.

“I won’t.” Peter promised, cheek scraping against the brick as he attempted to shake his head, “I won’t run.”

“Mmm,” Deadpool said in response, “I can never be sure with you.”

This time when Deadpool came to rest a hand on his cheek it was bare, and the rough texture of the scars felt so familiar, it felt like a punch to the gut. Tears hovered in his eyes, but he was afraid to blink them into existence.

He felt weak and powerless and out of control.

It was everything he’d been missing since Deadpool had left. Since Peter had screamed at him to leave.

“What’s this for,” Deadpool murmured inquisitively, and his thumb came to brush against glistening eyelashes. He rubbed the moisture he’d found there in between his thumb and forefinger. 

“My little cry baby,” Deadpool nuzzled almost affectionately into Peter’s cheek, if it hadn’t been for the hard press, strong enough to make the other one grind even more roughly into the wall. A lone tear escaped and made a slow path down the red, scratched skin of his exposed cheek.

“Do you want Daddy to take care of you?” Deadpool asked as his hand crept lower again, stoking the fire within Peter. He gasped as he was palmed almost too roughly, and he choked out what he thought sounded like an affirmation, but could have been anything. He just _needed_ so badly.

“What’s that?” Deadpool’s hard, mean voice asked. 

“Yes, Daddy, _”_ Peter tried again, straining his voice above a whisper. 

A leg was brought in between his own, forcing him to spread as wide as he could. The pants around his knees stretched before finally straining, and he could hear the fabric threatening to rip as Deadpool’s steel-toed boots nudged at his feet, forcing them wider.

“I can’t—” Peter protested, legs trembling as he struggled to keep them spread.

“There’s no I in can’t, honey,” Deadpool sing-songed to him nonsensically.

Deadpool, finally satisfied with the spread of Peter’s legs, started to press a steady pressure at the secured hands behind his back, encouraging him to arch his back.

“Papa needs little more room to work with,” he breathed in between Peter’s shoulder blades. “You want to come, don’t you, little one?”

And Peter _did_ feel little in this position, with Deadpool curled big and dominating over his back he felt like he was being devoured in the shadow of him.

Peter shimmied back, pressing closer to Deadpool. Big hands came to wrap along his slim hips, urging him farther back, helping to keep him steady. Peter’s cheek never left the brick; it just continued to scrape down as he was postured farther back. He was getting oddly used to the painful texture dragging along his face now.

He wondered what kind of picture they made. Peter nearly naked, hands bound, legs spread wide with his back arched for easier access to his ass. Deadpool, still fully suited up, katanas and all, draped along his back as he licked steadily into Peter’s mewling mouth. 

They’d never be the kind of picture you hung up. It didn’t stop Peter from wishing he had his camera on him.

He wished he’d been into photography before. When they’d… been together, he supposed. They’d never put a name on what they’d done together. There were still a hundred memories Peter wished he could have snapped, if only so he could have tangibly shoved them into a box, pretending to forget them as they aged slowly in the back of his closet. 

Instead he kept them trapped in his mind, free to drift up whenever they pleased, because Peter was too scared to let them fade into obscurity.

Deadpool pulled back and Peter’s lips felt raw from where the scars had rubbed continuously into the soft plushness of his lips.

“You’re too distracting,” Deadpool muttered to himself and then he was out of sight, bending down. Peter heard the creak of leather and the crunch of gravel as he kneeled down behind him.

“What’s this?” Deadpool asked curiously as his thumb rubbed slickly across his hole.

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut as a thumb slid easily into him. He really had been relaxing when he saw the news. He’d had a good day, an unexpected day off of work, lots of time to get his stuff down around the house. He’d planned to go patrolling later in the night, but ever since meeting Deadpool, he’d learned to enjoy the feeling of zipping through the city, loose-limbed and sated after a good orgasm.

That’s what he had been trying to achieve when the random channel he’d stopped on had broadcast the breaking news of what had happened in the city.

Peter had stopped so suddenly, orgrasm forgotten as he watched the news in fascination, catching a glimpse of red and black.

He’d been up and off the couch, previous activities forgotten, and so that brought them here.

With Peter, practically vibrating on Deadpool’s thumb, keening as a ridge of scar tissue caught on his rim, wanting more than anything to come.

“I was planning to eat you out,” Deadpool said more to himself than to Peter, “But I don’t think I need to now. You’re pretty slick, yet, baby.”

A kiss was pressed against a firm cheek, so close to where Peter wanted that mouth, but not close enough.

“How many?” 

Peter didn’t even need to ask him what Deadpool meant. He knew exactly what Deadpool was asking.

“Three,” Peter nearly sobbed out as the kiss turned sharp with teeth. Damn Deadpool and his mouth, with its incessant inability to _shut up._

“Only three fingers?” Deadpool tsked, “You always needed four with me.”

Peter didn’t tell him that he’d been on his way to working in the fourth, used to the stretch and burn despite not needing it. No one he was with needed _only_ anything. Peter hadn’t been with anyone in a long time. Not since he realized it left him more unsatisfied than not. No one ever came close to making him feel like Deadpool had. Eventually he’d stopped looking for it altogether.

“What to do, what to do,” Deadpool continued to talk to himself, and he was close enough that his breath of indecision brushed over Peter’s hole.

His thumb slipped free and Peter whimpered at the loss.

It was quickly replaced with two fingers this time, but he continued to hum in thought. As if he wasn’t doing what he was doing, but instead checking the weather. Flipping through his calendar. Rearranging his spice cabinet.

“I’m on a bit of a time crunch,” he finally said, and his head, unseen by Peter, glanced back at the taxi. He sighed regrettably. “I wish I had the time to taste you. I bet you’re still delectable.”

The fingers that had been stretching him absentmindedly, slowly driving Peter crazy, curled suddenly into a spot that had Peter moaning and writhing. The unbearable steady current of arousal in his stomach sparked, brought back to life, and his dick dripped in interest onto the pavement below.

Deadpool groaned as he slipped his fingers free and stood. He fumbled with his utility belt until it dropped with a thump to the ground below. Peter could see out of the corner of his eye he was fumbling with the hidden fastenings of his suit.

Peter had always been brilliant at opening it.

Deadpool often got fumbly the hornier he got.

His hands twitched along the webs still binding him; he wished so badly to reach out and touch.

Peter knew better than to ask.

“Nope,” Deadpool said as he made up his mind just as he slipped himself free, “I’ve got time for one or the other, and I simply _need_ to fuck you.” 

Peter craned his neck as far back as it would go. The angle allowed Peter only a quick glance at the thick, familiarly scarred head of Deadpool’s cock. Peter found his mouth watering, wishing he’d been allowed to blow him. He’d gotten so good, by the end of it all, at taking Deadpool fully. Letting him rest heavy on his tongue until Deadpool decided to fuck his mouth, jaw open as wide as he could, lips curled so he wouldn’t get caught on any teeth. 

“Right, baby?” Deadpool asked as he nudged at Peter’s entrance, “You need this, I can tell. You came running right to Daddy once you found out he was back in town. Isn’t that right?”

Peter couldn’t control the push back of his hips, and it nudged Deadpool in just the slightest bit.

He sobbed with the slight stretch it brought. He was _so close_. Peter could admit, in the haziness Deadpool always managed to bring over him, that he had yearned for this for so long. He’d waited for news of the man for years. Often kept tabs on him, to see if he ever came close to New York.

He never had.

The blunt stretch was gone in a flash, and Peter couldn’t stop the tears now. He just wanted a release that took reality with it for a little while. Now that he was this close, Peter couldn’t stop himself from wanting to take it. 

“Please,” Peter sobbed into the wall, “Please.” 

Deadpool shhh’d him.

“You were asked something, baby. You know how this goes.”

Peter licked his dry lips, tasting salt, as he admitted to it all in one shaky word, “ _Yes_.”

He was sure there was a smug, satisfied grin across Deadpool’s face right now. Peter was both glad and regretful that he couldn’t see it. He’d never seen Deadpool’s full face before, just as he had never seen Peter’s. He longed to lift the mask up and put a full image to the man underneath the mask.

They’d had a bunch of unspoken rules with each other in order to keep it all up, and they’d followed all of them. Until it had gotten to be too much.

Too real.

Then it’d all gone to hell.

Deadpool spit into his own hand and the sound was loud and vulgar as it echoed in the otherwise quiet of the alley. Peter pressed his cheek harder into the brick and let the haze in his mind wash over him further. He didn’t want to think right now. He only wanted Deadpool pressing into him, hands bruising his hips, as he took what Peter had freely given so many years ago.

What he was freely giving him now.

He didn’t have to wait long before Deadpool’s rough hand was braced on his shoulder, the other wrapped around himself to guide the head of his dick into Peter.

He might have been slick already, and somewhat stretched out, but it had still been a while; Deadpool had never been anywhere near average.

Peter’s mouth fell open at the burning stretch and Deadpool’s hand shifted to cup around his throat. He pulled Peter’s head back off the wall, creating a deeper arch in his back, and Deadpool slid in unrelenting further until Peter could feel his thighs pressed snugly against his own.

His back throbbed at the forced position almost as much as his ass did, but he could do nothing but pant, protests far from his mind, as airflow was limited by the hand wrapped around his throat.

It was exactly what Peter needed.

Deadpool didn’t give him much time to adjust to him before he was thrusting into him near brutally. The hand tightened around his throat, used as leverage, and wheezy breathes escaped him. He felt unbalanced by the odd position and Peter’s instincts had him attempting to throw out his hands to brace himself, but he wasn’t able to; he’d designed his web fluid to withstand almost anything, even his own strength.

Hell, he’d once held two halves of a ship together with it, and that was before he’d revamped it a dozen or so times over the years.

No, Peter was at the complete mercy of Deadpool in the moment. 

But he didn’t feel like he would fall, and Deadpool made sure to keep his head from hitting the brick wall in front of him, if only to keep him in the position that had Deadpool grunting with pleasure behind him.

“Is that what you’ve been missing, huh?” He asked with a series of sharp thrusts.

But Peter couldn’t answer, because all that existed in that moment was slick skin, hot heat, and the inescapable pleasure coursing through him. Peter let it wash over him, and he shifted minutely, waiting for Deadpool to hit that spot within him.

He knew Deadpool was holding off, because he knew exactly how to make Peter cry out in pleasure if he wanted to.

“I want something else,” he tipped impossibly forward to breathe into Peter’s ear suddenly, and Peter’s eyes nearly rolled at how close Deadpool was. They were pressed flush together from thighs to shoulders as he leaned over.

Pete’s Adam's apple bobbed against the hand wrapped there, trying to find his voice. What more could Peter give him that he hadn’t already taken?

“Do you want to come?” Deadpool bargained, and the hand that had been wrapped around his throat relented, drifting down to brush over sensitive nipples, running over the smooth skin of his stomach, before finally circling the base of his dick.

Peter glanced back, and startling blue eyes met his own simple brown ones.

Deadpool had taken his mask off. 

Peter couldn’t help the small keen of want that escaped him, and he twisted back unconsciously to get a better look.

“Ah, ah,” Deadpool’s boots nudged his feet as he hobbled them forward, forcing Peter along the wall again, still pressed so tightly together, and the angle shifted him inside enough to just brush tantalizingly over that spot. 

A little gasp escaped him as Deadpool tightened his grip on Peter’s cock at the same time. Both pleasures zipped through him. His other hand had left it’s bruising grip on Peter’s hip to rest bent above them, using the wall to hold them steady.

Peter’s arms were trapped tightly between them, and they burned deliciously from being pulled back for so long. 

“I asked you a question, darling,” he reminded in a purr, clearly amused at Peter’s reaction. Deadpool always got more lax and affectionate the closer to orgasm he got, Peter knew; what earlier had angered him now amused him. 

A small part of him was happy to still know that little piece of information still applied to the other man.

His cheek came to rest against Peter’s as he asked, each word drawn out, “Do. You. Want. To. Come.”

“Yes, please.” Peter answered quietly, remembering his manners, not taking any chances on angering Deadpool, not this close to release. He knew he could easily be left, tied up and wanting, so he obeyed like the good boy he was.

He’d once been the _best boy_ , so Deadpool had used to tell him.

He couldn’t help the small sob that escaped him at that thought.

Deadpool, hands currently occupied, used his tongue to swipe his tears away.

“Why the tears, huh?” His voice had gone soft, encouraging, like he actually cared.

These thoughts were bringing Peter too close to the surface, when he wanted so badly to be pulled under again.

“ _Please_ ,” he whispered. 

“Don’t you think you’re being a little greedy?” Deadpool asked sharply, eyebrows raised. “You already came once today.”

Peter shook his head, forgetting the brick where it rubbed at his already raw cheek.

“N-no,” Peter gasped out through his tears, “Didn’t—didn’t finish.”

Deadpool started up shallow thrusts at that answer, unable to stay still any longer.

He’d always loved to see Peter cry.

“Why’s that?” He asked, aiming for casual, but the tad breathlessness to it betrayed him.

Peter, desperate to hear Deadpool affected just as much as he was, let himself lift up to his tip toes before dropping back down to his heels. 

He dropped back right on an upward thrust from Deadpool and the man moaned low in his throat.

“I—” Peter stopped himself. He didn’t want to confess why he hadn’t finished, so he just continued rocking on his heels, hoping to distract him. He knew it was a naughty move and Deadpool, whose hand had gone slack from pleasure, tightened painfully around him again; a clear sign that he knew what Peter was up to.

“Tell me,” he growled with a sharp tug, hand too tight to be pleasurable.

“I saw—” Peter knew that once he admitted it, he couldn’t take it back. It would be out in the world, between the two of them, that Peter was still so wrapped up in the other man he’d stop whatever he was doing to come find him. Seek him out.

The grip loosened and Deadpool continued, matching his thrusts with his hand so Peter was enveloped in pleasure.

“Say it, baby, who’d you see that made you stop?” and the phrase of his question gave no illusions– Deadpool knew exactly what had happened.

Deadpool nuzzled Peters throat as he continued to jack him off, thrusting shallowing still, holding himself back. He swiped his palm across the top of Peter’s dick roughly and Peter moaned.

“That’s it. You can tell me, who’d you see, baby?”

Peter’s vision went blurry and he finally admitted in a whisper, “I saw _you_.”

Deadpool growled into his neck, hips thrusting shallowly, “That’s right, you saw Daddy and came running. And instead of letting yourself take care of it, you knew I would, isn’t that right?”

“Uh huh,” Peter admitted, tears falling. 

He’d missed him. He’d missed him so much.

“Well, I’m here right now. I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.”

Peter slumped with relief, but it was fleeting, because Deadpool quickly followed up with, “If you want to come though, baby, you gotta do one more thing for me. Just one more thing.”

Deadpool nuzzled into his ear, and the tenderness was going to make Peter’s heart burst, “Remember I told you earlier?”

Peter nodded his head slowly. He remembered, but it was getting harder to concentrate, kept on the edge like this for so long; his body was starting to feel heavy, and his thoughts were sluggish, like they were moving through honey, and although his body felt alive with the pleasure thrumming through it, his arms had long since gone numb, and he knew he was slipping deeper than he’d expected. He was suddenly grateful for Deadpool’s bulk behind him keeping him up. If the man decided to step back now, Peter would surely fall over. 

“I want you to say my name when you finish. Can you do that for me, baby?”

Peter knew exactly what name he meant. 

Peter knew Deadpool’s name. But he never used it. He’d never actually introduced himself with it to Spider-Man; it was just public knowledge that Deadpool, deadly killer and assassin, was also Wade Wilson, legendary mercenary.

He never called him anything other than Deadpool, though. Never used his first name because… because Peter had never been willing to give up his. And although every other thing in their life was filled with imbalance, Peter never wanted that to be.

So he never called him by his true name, ever.

He knew what it meant, now, of course.

Peter guessed he was wrong earlier. There was still plenty left for Wade to take.

There wasn’t anything that didn’t belong to him, now.

Peter figured it didn’t matter much _now_. He’d already unmasked Peter. Deadpool was many things, but stupid was not one of them. He’d once watched Deadpool locate a guy from a leftover toothpick and a CVS receipt. With the information he already had on Peter, after seeing his face of all things, he all but had Peter’s name in his grasp.

There was a part of him that had always wanted to give it up, anyway, just to hear it gasped into his ear as Deadpool lost control over him.

“Peter.”

Deadpool stilled completely. Of course he's expected a fight over reluctant acceptance. Peter did have a certain MO, after all. His teasing thrusts stopped and his arm tensed along Peter’s stomach. 

“My name. It’s—”

“ _Peter_.” Deadpool finished for him, name falling from his lips near reverent, and Peter choked on a sob when he heard it in the deep tenor he’d only ever dreamed of.

Suddenly, Deadpool started up with a renewed vigour. He growled behind Peter and he bent his braced arm close enough, maneuvering Peter’s forehead onto it, so that he didn’t get shoved painfully forward with each thrust. Peter nuzzled gratefully into the muscular arm, unfortunately still clad in leather, but much more comfortable than a brick wall.

The increased force of Deadpool’s thrusts pitched Peter forward onto his tip toes with each one, and he cried out as he continued to hit that spot inside him relentlessly. Wade’s other hand was jacking him unevenly, but even that felt perfect, and the arousal inside him kept expanding, growing, blooming, until, like a supernova, he was consumed by it.

Wade’s harsh exhales, and Peter’s little “ah”’s, were accompanied by the slick, flithy sounds of them fucking, and before Peter knew it he was shuddering in Deadpool, no, Wade’s arms, crying out a name he’d never let himself say before.

“ _Wade!”_

His name falling from Peter’s lips caused Wade to groan low behind him. He thrust once, twice, three times before stilling, breathing _“Peter”_ into the side of his neck as Peter felt him come deep inside him.

Peter wished his hands were untied so he could reach a hand up and cradle the back of Wade’s head, keeping him there as he shook with aftershocks, body fitting snug and perfect against Peter’s own.

Finally he slumped off Peter, backing away to use a hand to guide himself out almost delicately.

Peter was floating for real this time. His orgasm had left him in that place where nothing existed beyond the satisfaction of pleasing Deadpool, Daddy, _Wade,_ the names jumbled around in his head, as he was unsure of which to use, now.

He swayed, legs weak from keeping him up for who knows how long, and his balance thrown off by his tied back hands.

Suddenly a hand was on him, steadying him, and Peter heard the familiar zip of Wade retrieving something from a pouch before his hands were suddenly freed. They fell limply at his sides, tingling and numb from their forced position. The feeling only added to his floaty headspace.

He must have lost a bit of time. Which, if he was being honest, wasn’t unusual. Especially after what they’d just done. Besides, Peter hadn’t done anything like that in years. Not since figuring it all out with Deadpool.

He’d never trusted anyone else enough to attempt it.

“Hey.” Deadpool’s voice floated back to him, and Peter blinked around at his surroundings. Deadpool was crouched over him, rubbing feeling back into his sore, slightly bruised wrists. He looked down and noticed he was sitting with his costume back on… Well, what was left of it. 

“Peter, babe, drink this,” the voice commanded, and so Peter obeyed. That was how it was supposed to go, right?

The bottle tipped carefully along his lips and the water tasted cool and refreshing as he gulped it down.

“You did so good for me,” Deadpool whispered into his curly hair, and Peter reached up. He brushed a hand against an exposed face. He’d never seen such blue eyes. 

“I-I missed you,” he confessed, voice still hoarse from crying and panting and moaning. If impending orgasm made Deadpool more affectionate, post orgasm made Peter more truthful.

Embarrassingly so.

A rough, frustrated exhale, and Peter flinched back. 

A hand ran soothingly down his back.

“I missed you, too,” Deadpool admitted reluctantly, leaning his forehead against Peter’s own, almost like he knew he shouldn’t.

No, Peter had to stop calling him that.

Wade.

Wade always did aftercare correctly, no matter what. He may have been rough, and often cruel, but he’d learned exactly what Peter needed from him all those times before. They’d learned together.

It just hadn’t been enough.

He stayed crouched with Peter until the glossy, unfocused haze in his eyes lessoned and his trembling ceased. Wade had encouraged sips of water periodically, but didn't move from his side until Peter made his own move to grab the water bottle.

Peter tilted his head back and finished it with one last gulp.

Scarred hands took the bottle from him, hiding it away somewhere. Deadpool had always had a weird thing about recycling.

Peter looked up. Wade stood imposing in all his six foot glory above him.

He looked down submissively. Okay, maybe he wasn’t completely out of it just yet.

Peter let himself take a few breathes; in, hold, out, hold. He repeated that until his thoughts came clearer. As amazing as what they’d just done had felt, there had been a reason why Peter had wanted this all to stop. One of them being that Wade refused to stop what he was best at: killing.

Another was that he always took it just a tad too far. Even if a part of Peter always enjoyed it, it scared him. What _wouldn’t_ Peter say yes to, if Wade asked?

He braced an arm against the wall behind him to help him stand. He wobbled once, and his senses were back enough to notice Deadpool’s minute movement to grab for him, just in case, but he made it by himself. He rubbed at his wrist, the one without his web shooter, and a scarred hand thrust it into his line of vision.

He grabbed it, refusing to look up, and snapped it back on. 

Only once that was done did Peter look up stubbornly, feeling as ready as he’d ever be to have this conversation. This fight. This fall out. 

Yet again.

But Wade was already making his way back over to the taxi, slamming the trunk shut with a loud bang.

“Hey, this isn’t over!” Peter attempted to shout at him, but his hoarse throat stained as his voice rose. Wade paused. Peter took a step and his legs trembled but he didn’t stumble as he hurried over to Wade.

“My business is done in New York,” he told Peter simply. 

Peter’s protest died in the back of his throat at that.

Wade shrugged. “I was already planning to leave. Dopinder here was helping me make a hasty escape.”

Peter followed the line of Wade’s thumb as he slung it over his shoulder. From the back window of the taxi Peter could see a man waving enthusiastically to him. 

Mortification burned through him.

“ _He was here the whole time?”_ Peter hissed.

Wade laughed, “Pretty much. I’m sure he wasn’t listening though. There _are_ such things as headphones, now, babe.”

The pet name still caused Peter to flush, even after everything they’d done. _Especially_ after what they’d just done.

“Don’t call me that,” Peter protested petulantly, sounding bratty to his own ears. He couldn’t help it. Deadpool brought out the worst in him.

It just happened to be that sometimes Peter needed that. Wanted it, even.

Wade sighed and moved forward to stand in front of Peter. It caused Peter to tilt his face up to meet his gaze.

He still had his mask off, and Peter’s eyes roamed freely. He’d seen a picture of Wade once, from _before_. The features that had highlighted his attractiveness then had stayed despite the scars and cancer; the chiseled jaw, the high cheekbones, the deep set eyes, the strong brow bone.

He was just as attractive now, in Peter’s opinion.

Wade shook his head, smirking, as Peter flushed deeper. He always hated how the other man seemed to know exactly what he was thinking.

“Let Dopinder here take you home,” Wade suggested as he handed one last thing to Peter: his mask.

Peter's eyebrows creased in confusion as he took it back.

“I’m fine,” he refused the offer stubbornly. His arms only twinged a little now. He’d be fine to swing home. 

He needed the fresh air to clear his mind and the time to process what had happened. 

Wade lifted himself up to his full height, “Let me rephrase that. Dopinder is taking you home.” He crossed his arms and nodded towards the cab.

Peter’s eyes flicked down to bulging muscles. 

Wade was _visually_ intimdating. He used every muscle to display his dominance, and despite his own superior strength, Peter felt his argument deflating.

All he wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed. He’d take whichever got him there faster at this point, and he’d only waste time trying to argue with Wade. He’d lose in the long run every time. 

“Alright,” he yielded, voice small and defeated.

“That’s my best boy.”

Peter's head snapped up, and Wade gave him a rare, genuine smile. 

There was a small, tiny flicker of hope that he should have extinguished immediately in his heart. He’d gone down this road before and the crash had been spectacular.

But you know what they say?

Absence made the heart grow fonder.

Or forgetful.


End file.
